


I Do. I'm Not. I Know.

by meditationsinemergencies



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Control, Dom/sub, Dominance, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Secret Relationship, Submissive Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-13 12:49:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29526660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meditationsinemergencies/pseuds/meditationsinemergencies
Summary: Horace feigns sick to get himself into the hospital wing.
Relationships: Poppy Pomfrey/Horace Slughorn
Comments: 16
Kudos: 9
Collections: Love Fest 2021





	I Do. I'm Not. I Know.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gcgraywriter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gcgraywriter/gifts).



> This was written for Love Fest 2021.
> 
> This has not been beta'd, and I apologise for any and all glaring mistakes. 
> 
> #LF2021 #TeamVenus

A collector, by definition, is someone who has an accumulation of things—to be studied, or compared, perhaps put on display, or, even, just there as one's personal and private hobby. 

If one is an enthusiast, however, they will have a strong and habitual liking for something. 

But a connoisseur is someone who has a deep appreciation and knowledge for the art. 

If you were to ask Horace Slughorn, he'd tell you that while, yes, he was a collector, and, yes, he was also an enthusiast, he was, however, above all, a connoisseur. His hobby, his habit, was people. 

Horace knew the benefits of knowing the right person at the right time, and, frankly, he didn't see anything wrong with it. Others, however, didn't always approve of being collected or his collection, and one person in particular that he found himself quite desperate for. 

***

Horace cast a warming charm on his forehead and walked slowly and sickly into the hospital wing. 

It was the beginning of the term and quite quiet there. Students weren't yet trying to skip class which meant that Poppy Pomfrey was more than likely alone. 

He cleared his throat as he feigned collapsing into a chair. He watched as the woman, her busty form hidden beneath her clothes, hurried out of her office only to roll her eyes when she saw that it was just him who needed assistance. 

"What could you possibly need now, Horace?"

"I feel faint, Poppy. I…" he sighed, raising the back of his hand to his forehead, shutting his eyes in fatigue, "I am so hot. I must have a fever. Do help me, please." 

She stared silently at him, his eyes remained closed. "Poppykins. Darling, are you still there?"

Stepping towards him swiftly she flattened her hand against his forehead, and inwardly he preened at her touch. In frustration, she pushed his head back and away from her hand and scolded him, "It's a warming charm."

His eyes shot open in shock, "How did you know?" He pouted at her, grabbing her hand, but she quickly snatched it away—not viciously but in an annoyingly playful manner. 

"I've been dealing with sick students for how many years now? Don't you think I would know when one has a real fever and one has just used a warming charm?" 

He loved it when she scolded him. His cock twitched at her tone, the way her hands came to her hips, her right foot tapping, her wide mouth in a pout. Yes, his cock was wide awake and desperate to be hers again.

"I really just wanted to see you, you know. It's been a whole week, Poppykins."

She snapped her fingers at him, "Don't call me that, Horace. A week is nothing. It's been busy. First years falling prey to pranks, younger students homesick and thinking they're actually ill. You know how it goes." 

"This would be so much easier if people knew. If we just went in and told Dippet that…"

"No,” she said in that lovely stern voice of hers. 

"I hate secrets," he folded his arms across his chest and pouted.

She shook her head, "I will not be paraded around as one of your trinkets. I am not part of your collection."

"Of course, not! You're special." He took her hand and she let him pull her towards him this time. 

"Mhmm. No, you'd use me somehow, if people were to know. I don't trust that part of you. If you want this to continue, it's on my terms. You know that.” 

"Fine,” he said, examining the fingers on her hand and bringing them to his mouth to gently kiss, “I do miss you, though. It's hard to see you and not act like we're together." 

Poppy scoffed, "It's your own fault, Horace. You can't use people as you do."

"Oh, Poppy." He rolled his eyes and let out a huff of air. 

"What?" She stood between his open legs, the hem of her dress hitting the fabric of his trousers. He liked her when she was like this—combative, aggressive, and he really liked when she called on his character, bringing light to his flaws. It was, he found, oddly arousing. 

He smiled slyly at her, "We all have our flaws, darling. Plus, no one really seems to mind. Look, my circle? It benefits them just as much as it benefits me. It just often is better for me overall. So what?” 

She pursed her lips together, he loved her lips, full, and a bit uneven in the way her upper lip was fuller than her bottom, the way it stuck out over it. 

"You naughty snake,” she said, her voice a bit lower than before, to be certain no one could hear her, even though no one else was there. 

Grinning, he said, "You like it though."

She tilted her head to the side, her dark blonde hair falling to her shoulder, "You or your naughty snake?"

"Both,” his eyes shone with excitement; he felt a surge of blood to his cock, hardening somewhat. He reached out with his fingers, and let them toy with the hem on her skirt, "Let me make love to you here."

She made a face and groaned, "Don't say make love, Horace.” 

He pulled his hand away, a bit hurt, “Why not?” 

Scoffing again she looked up at the ceiling, “You don't mean it. You're trying to manipulate the situation. I’m not stupid.”

Bewildered and feeling more bruised than seconds before he said, “I do. I’m not. I know.”

She cleared her throat before pulling her wand from the pocket of her skirt and flicked it, casting a silencing charm and locking the door to the infirmary, certain that, at this hour of the evening, no students were likely to visit. 

The tone shifted slightly in the room and Horace was elated when she spoke again. 

“We'll discuss that later. Right now, however, I’m quite disappointed in you.” 

He straightened in the chair, bristling with excitement, “What for, Madam Pomfrey?” 

She held up her hand in a fist as she spoke, lifting a finger with each reason: “One: You lied about a fever. Feigning illness is not to be taken lightly. Two: You broke the rules. You came here during school hours when students might have been in here, and without checking in with me. That’s bad, Horace. That’s a naughty boy.”

He grabbed onto her hips and pulled her closer to him, looking up at her admiringly and asked, “What can I do to make it up to you?” 

She took her wand and ran the tip of it gently along the side of his face, down his neck, and against the buttons of his collared shirt—the buttons popping open as she went, exposing his dark brown chest hair. Smiling wickedly down at him, his cock throbbing and straining against his trousers, his mouth watering with want, he waited for her to tell him what to do; he was powerless to her— he loved it, craved it, and longed her late at night in his chambers when he’d take his thick and stout cock into his hand and rock himself to completion, wishing it were her he was doing it for. 

That was one of her rules: When he finished, she had to be watching him as he stroked himself, watching as he’d come all over himself for her. 

Once he’d finished, she’d straddle him, let her wet and warm centre rub against his all-too sensitive head while she cleaned him up with her wand. 

Usually, after this, despite her already coming several times, he would always find himself with his face buried between her legs, licking her sweetly and tenderly until she came for him once more. This was, perhaps, his favourite part of their evenings. 

Yes, he loved it when she’d put his cock in her mouth, and he loved it when she demanded that he bend her over and fuck her hard. 

Yes, he loved it when she wouldn’t let him touch her or kiss her while she sat on his face, how she would begin rubbing herself, fingering herself, making herself come—her sopping cunt right at his lips, just out of his reach. 

But by the end of the night, she was tired and often sore, and she would lie there and let him take her into his mouth, let him wrap his hands around her thighs and pull her towards him.

This is when she would let him tell her that he loved her. He’d slide his fingers into her and look up at her, her chest rising and falling—nipples hard, and he’d tell her how beautiful she was, tell her that he loved her more than anything, and she’d say it back, but only then. He knew she didn’t trust him otherwise, didn’t believe he meant it at any other time but this one. 

So, Horace was quite surprised when Poppy grabbed his hand and led him to her bedroom, and laid bare on the bed for him, asking him to show her, once more, that he loved her. 


End file.
